


One Step at a Time

by problematic_pleasures



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Get together fic, Law Student T'Challa, M/M, Oneshot, Pre-Slash, Romantic Tension, Street Fighter/Underground Boxer Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13937793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematic_pleasures/pseuds/problematic_pleasures
Summary: After an especially brutal fight, Erik meets one of his neighbors.





	One Step at a Time

**Author's Note:**

> still working on prompts from tumblr! anonymous requested, "Street fighter Erik and Lawyer student T'challa from a rich family and etc" and this is what happened! it's just a oneshot look into this AU, but i hope you all enjoy! (i might turn this into a series, but for now just accept it as the oneshot it is haha)
> 
> i had a lot of fun writing this one!

The door opens so suddenly, Erik can’t help but jump.

“Are those peas?”

Erik scowls. “What’s it to you?”

The man in the doorway raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “It is a simple question.”

“It is _none_ of your business,” Erik retorts as he steps toward the stairs again. He doesn’t flinch when a hand grips his elbow, but he barely reigns in the urge to deck this guy. “What’s your problem, man? I said it’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

The man frowns, and his wide eyes narrow. “Let me help you.”

“What, you a doctor?”

“I’m a law student.” He says easily, but he doesn’t let go of Erik’s arm. “But I know a thing or two.” He stares critically at Erik’s swollen face, at his bloodied eyes and lip. “It is none of my business,” the man agrees, “so I will not ask any questions. But at least let me help you.”

Erik tries to snarl but it only reminds him of his split lip and shooting pain. He sighs through the burst of hurt, and nods. “Fine, whatever.” He comes down from the steps and follows the man into his apartment. It isn’t as though his own place, two floors up, is going anywhere. “What’s your name, man?”

“T’Challa,” the answer comes from the dinky bathroom. The apartment is set up almost identical to Erik’s, if a little neater, more books. A little less lived-in, but that’s probably just a by-product of the neatness. It isn’t as though Erik is actually home that often; he just never picks up after himself. “And you?”

Erik shakes himself from analyzing the apartment. “Erik.”

T’Challa returns with a first aid kit in his hands. “It is nice to meet you, Erik.” He nods to the couch tucked into a corner. “Sit, I need to gather a few more things.”

Erik obeys and presses the bag of mostly-frozen peas against his eye as he walks. He sinks into the plush couch and tilts his head back, sighing in relief when his aching feet finally feel the relief of not standing, not walking. “Don’t you got studying to do?”

T’Challa’s laugh carries from the kitchen, over the sound of a running faucet. “Always,” he agrees as he pads back into the living room. “But it can wait. It is nothing pressing.” He sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of Erik, and gestures him closer. “Set the peas aside. This is going to sting.”

“Always does,” Erik mutters, but does as told. He winces at the glimpse of watered down blood on the outside of the plastic, but puts the peas on the towel draped over the arm of the couch. He tilts his head toward T’Challa and winces as the chill of the wet washcloth wipes over the worst of his scrapes. The white washcloth comes away pink, and Erik winces again.

“It is fine,” T’Challa assures him softly. “Nothing bleach can’t fix, hm?”

Erik grins and ignores the sting. “Right, yeah. I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning.”

T’Challa laughs but doesn’t reply. He continues to clean Erik’s face, at times applying a little more force with stubborn spots of blood. Erik sits through it diligently, and takes the opportunity to study his neighbor’s face, mannerisms, and his apartment a little more.

“You have curious eyes,” T’Challa observes. “I said I would not ask any questions, I never held you to the same rule.”

Erik shrugs. “None of my business, neither.”

T’Challa hums and finally sets the washcloth aside. He pulls the first aid kit into his lap and flips it open. He rummages for a moment before triumphantly pulling out a tube of ointment. “This will also sting. You may ask me questions if you like.” He unscrews the cap and tabs it onto his fingers. He pauses for only a moment before drawing his fingertips over Erik’s wounds carefully.

“How old’re you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Isn’t that an early start?” Erik wouldn’t really know. He graduated high school and community college, then decided street fighting was his best bet.

T’Challa shrugs but there’s a quirk in his lips, an expression that’s sweetly amused. “Perhaps. I enjoy learning. And, my birthday falls in such a way that I end up younger than my peers.”

Erik nods, and grins when T’Challa tsks at him for disrupting the treatment. “Sorry,” he mutters, not very apologetic at all. T’Challa simply rolls his eyes. “You live alone?”

“Yes.” T’Challa’s gaze drops to Erik’s fists in his lap, and tsks again. “Those are next,” he advises, and Erik smirks.

“What kinda lawyer you wanna be?”

“Human rights.” T’Challa’s answers are smooth and easy, transparent and almost overwhelmingly genuine. It’s unsettling, something Erik isn’t really used to. Erik falls silent then as the full weight of his fight that day hits him. He won, barely, and came out bruised and bloody as ever. It’s probably the worst he’s done this season—if you can call it that, when it’s all underground and less-than-legal. But he still won, still has a couple grand in his backpack to show for it.

“You make a habit of this,” T’Challa says. “It is not good for you to not treat this.”

“S’normally not this bad.” Erik snipes back.

T’Challa wears the same unimpressed look he did in the hallway. “Regardless. Do you have a death wish?”

Erik frowns and finally leans back. “Thought you weren’t gonna ask questions.”

T’Challa raises his hands in surrender. “Very well.” He motions Erik closer again and doesn’t talk. He finishes cleaning and treating Erik’s face, then reaches for his hands. He hums, disapprovingly, but follows the same process. He wipes away the scabbed, torn skin, eventually he has to get up and get a fresh cloth. Then, he carefully covers the wounds in ointment. Unlike the single-spot bandages he slapped onto Erik’s face, he winds gauze around his knuckles with just as much care.

“Where you from?” Erik asks as T’Challa starts to pack up the first aid kit.

“Africa.”

Erik’s eyes widen, stinging be damned. “What, really?”

T’Challa nods. “Really,” he agrees. He wipes his hands on a not-bloodied corner of washcloth, then stands. “If you are able, perhaps refrain from whatever caused this for at least a week. Longer, if you can.” With all his supplies gathered in his arms, T’Challa turns on a heel and strides from the living room. He ducks into a side closet, tosses the cloths in there, then returns to the bathroom.

Erik stands as well and grabs his no-longer-frozen peas. Awkwardly, with his backpack swung over his sore shoulder, and his feet screaming at him for standing again, Erik waits.

“You know where the door is,” T’Challa calls to him.

“Hey, man, my shoulder is killin’ me. You got anything for that?”

T’Challa comes from the bathroom drying his hands on a towel. He looks pissed for a split second, then the expression softens. “Rest, ice, compression, elevation.”

Which Erik knew, but the small smile on T’Challa face is worth it. “Yeah, alright, got it. If I need help, uh, compressing it, can I call you up?”

T’Challa studies him for a moment. “You know where I live,” he points out. “I don’t know that anything else is your business.” He pauses, smirking. “Yet.”

“Yet,” Erik echoes. “I can work with that.” He finally moves to the door, and T’Challa moves toward him at the same time. Erik stops when T’Challa is in arm’s reach. “I’ll hit you up?”

T’Challa nods, and reaches around Erik for the door. He pulls it open and gestures, at once rude and endearing, to the hallway. “I have studying to do.”

Erik snorts but steps over the threshold. “Got it. Good luck on your studying. I dunno nothin’ about law, but I’ve seen about every episode of _Law & Order_, might be a good sounding board.”

That earns him a fuller laugh, not soft or reserved. T’Challa holds the door and lays a hand over his chest as he laughs; his eyes close and his mouth drops open, and Erik wants to kiss him. He thinks _he_ might get decked if he tries, so he settles for a wink.

“Gonna go rest that shoulder,” Erik promises. “Maybe I’ll come down tomorrow. Six o’clock, bring some sandwiches if you’re into that.”

T’Challa starts to shut the door, but grins in the space between the door and the threshold. “I am into that,” he answers.

“Good, cool. Alright.”

“Goodnight, Erik.”

“Night, T’Challa.”

They stand there, still and silent, for a minute longer, before T’Challa finally shuts the door. Erik waits, just to be certain the other man won’t come bursting out—not likely, this isn’t some Hollywood thing—then finally starts up the stairs to his own apartment. It’s empty and chilly when he finally gets the key to work in the door, but as he puts himself to bed, carefully minding his shoulder and various other injuries, he grins.

Tough night, overall. But he still came out on top.


End file.
